Metal Birds

Chapter 47: Raindrop Eyes

London, England, November 2, 1940

He hummed absentmindedly, eyes glassy as he stared out on the English Channel. He could see where it was ending, spilling out into the Atlantic. Where Spanish territory was now prominent over the sea. He was sitting in a tree, watching as life returned to the world. 

The world he saw was gold, orange, and magenta, though the colors didn't thrill him as much as they usually did. They almost made him feel morose. He turned as an automobile began moving in his direction, and he let out a small sigh, pushing himself from the thin, spindly branches of the tree. He launched himself across the road well before the vehicle arrived. And with that, he flew. 

He did not fly with as much vigor. Those events more recent had brought his positive attitude crashing down, now matter how often he tried to maintain it. The medic back in Cairo had said he had a concussion. It wasn't as bad anymore. But it had been bad when he was there. The head trauma he'd had from falling, as well as the overbearing stress of the recent events all piling up on top of him in a heap were enough to make him hallucinatory. 

Arthur, though he would much rather not say it out loud, was officially going crazy. 

All Nations had a breaking point, this he new. He hadn't expected he would reach his so soon. He could practically feel the seams of his sanity pulling apart, thread by thread through each battle, physical and mental. He remembered when Ivan had snapped. At the summit, perhaps centuries earlier, when he had been fighting with Gilbert. The childish grin and the blank look in his eyes, quickly vanishing when he realized he wasn't just wishing he could wring the albino's neck. That, however, was an obvious end to Ivan's stability. It wasn't obvious for all of them. Arthur could see it through all of them, some of them were skittish, some very short tempered, others easily violent or frustrated. Sometimes more than one of these. 

He couldn't help but realize he'd practically already broken, the moment he started screaming for Marie to leave him alone, or, at least, the apparition he hallucinated while at the air base. 

As the English coast came under him, he felt an instinctual relief. Just being 'home' made him feel more relaxed, and his shoulders slumped evidently. He kept his wings stiff. His feathers felt thin and few in numbers, though he managed to keep himself aloft. At least the scars from the bombings had begun retreating back down towards his chest again. That, and he could sleep a full night if he wanted too, now.

Coast turned to countryside, countryside into rural areas, and by the time dawn had finished peaking, the rural areas had turned into city. The Thames river snaked by below him, the clouds above circling in a melancholy welcome.  He could feel the light sprinkling of rain upon his back and feathers, and it caused a shiver to run about his body. 

It was a relief. 

He could feel his muscles relaxing as he came to float down over the parliament, before he shifted to turn and face upward for a moment. The light rain on his face was a stark difference to the heat and sand he'd been dealing with previously. He wasn't able to stay on his back for long, finding his flight gliding downward, and he tucked his wings and turned sharply, before shifting to stop his flight in the small courtyard he'd been managing to land in for a while now. 

Upon glancing up, he saw a figure retreat from the window. It wasn't long after that the door opened, and Matthew could be seen ushering him inside. The room he and Francis had been allegedly staying in was merely a hop, skip, and a jump down the hallway, accompanied by a sharp turn left. 

The window had been cracked open, and as the harshness of the rain outside grew more severe, Arthur could see rain drops on the windowsill. The condensation there was crystalline, grey and blue and pale, pale violet reflecting across the glass of the windows. There were two cots in the room now, half made and smelling of cigarette smoke. A small record player hummed sporadically in the corner, as if unsure if it should keep playing music or not. The couch had been pushed to face the window, and by the head of halfheartedly kept blonde hair and the small pillar of smoke drifting outside, Arthur assumed Francis sat there. 

"Are you alright? The moment we got your letter-"
"I'm fine." Arthur said slowly after a moment, and Matthew pursed his lips. At that, Arthur immediately put on a strained smile, though Matthew only looked more concerned. 
"Alfred's planning on coming. He sent a letter saying that since he's got some troops here, he wants to check up on them and make sure we're all okay."

Arthur couldn't help the surprised expression that crept onto his features. 

"Alfred's coming here? I thought he didn't want to get involved."
"Not at first no. Roosevelt convinced him to come though." 
"Oh. Well, I see then." 

"It's about time now, isn't it?" Francis hummed solemnly. 

Arthur turned to face the man, who was looking sideways towards the door. His face was rimmed with the silver light of the day, his features all too similar to a slate with how much his expression lacked emotion.

He didn't respond after a moment, and Francis turned to him tiredly. The blisters on his face had receded and group about his ear and jaw, growing larger there instead of continuing about his face. Arthur fought the urge to grimace sympathetically, and Francis expression formed into something amused. 

"You're so tan now. You look like you had fun." 
Arthur almost laughed, but instead his expression fell. "I hate sand." He replied bitterly after a moment. 

There was a small pause, before Francis looked away in what must have been understanding. A century and all the conflict they'd been through, and it appeared that Francis hadn't lost his empathetic link to the Englishman. Arthur sighed, pulling off the military grade knapsack he'd been given, and allowing it to slump to the floor beside the couch. With that, he pulled off the shirt of his uniform, leaving him in his undershirt. He eventually moved to take off his shoes, his wings slumping down. 

"Are you hungry?" Matthew asked after a few seconds of silence. 
Arthur merely nodded as he stood. 

Before Arthur could say anything, Matthew had left the room, leaving him alone with Francis as he stared out the window. The couch was an old thing, big enough to sit three comfortably. It was white and green striped, with copper fixtures along the top and the armrests. He didn't recognize it, but just looking at something so old made him feel a bit relaxed. 

He plopped down next to Francis, earning a sigh from the man. 

"You seem different." He said quietly. 
"I feel different." Arthur replied softly. 
The two remained silent for a moment. 
"You're not going to end up like Ivan, are you?"
"No. God, no. That's the last thing I'd let myself fall to."
"Good." 

They stared out at the rain for a few minutes. When Matthew didn't return, Arthur spoke once more.

"Francis?"
"Oui?" 
"...have you ever seen people?" 
"...what do you mean by that, cher?" 
"...people you miss. People that are gone." 
"Yes. Sometimes." Francis turns to him knowingly. "She'll never leave you be, Arthur. Not until she has become brittle bones. And sometimes, you may still see her face." 

Arthur turned worriedly, his expression paling. Francis eyes shone with that knowing look, the same one in his voice, his pale blue eyes glistening like the rain outside and the condensation on the windowsill. 

Arthur isn't much assured by the half empty wine bottle by Francis' feet, or the cigarette perched between his fingers. 

"Don't worry, cher. She's only watching over you."

Arthur turned away, letting out a heavy breath. It wasn't anything relieved. It was defeated, perhaps slightly satisfied. He eventually stands, before meandering towards the door, dragging his bare feet that hop, skip, and a jump away from the door. 

He stood in the rain outside the window, face tilted up to the sky with his eyes closed. His wings became waterlogged, and his hair became plastered to his skull, and he knew that if he opened his eyes they would sting. He didn't care that Francis was watching on with pursed lips, or that Matthew was standing there dejectedly with tea and a bun, watching on like a worried mother. He didn't care that his shirt and trousers were soaking wet, nor that he may get a cold, because he'd spent far too long feeling hot. 

Arthur stood in the rain, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a little bit okay.